by E. B. Brown
The native stopped so fast that she stumbled into his back, and relief washed through her when she realized the new voice belonged to Winn.
Great, she thought. Winn would clear up the little misunderstanding and they could go back to the beach peacefully to eat their fish.
She tried to shake off the hand that held her, but it remained locked like binding around her wrist.
Winn made no eye contact with her as he confronted the man, but his muscles were tensed like bowstrings as he approached. The second man swung around to flank him, leaving Winn surrounded as he spoke in rapid Paspahegh to the intruders.
Something Winn said suddenly angered the man, and he snatched her forward and thrust the knife beneath her chin as Winn stepped toward him. At the sight of the knife and her gasp of surprise Winn immediately stopped, his feet planted shoulder stance apart, crouched slightly, his breathing slowed and cautious.
“Winn?” she whispered. His eyes met hers, and she shuddered to see the flare of anger held back within, his jaw hard as he remained poised to strike. She made her decision, and after taking a deep breath in preparation, she raised her knee up and struck backward with all her might. Her heel made contact with one knee in a sickening snap, and in a blur of copper skin and limbs she was shoved away to fall into the sandy soil at their feet as the warriors tumbled to the ground.
She saw the second man move to enter the fray, and since she had nothing with which to fight, she grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him. He blocked her attempt but it slowed him down enough for her to find a nearby rock, which she also threw at him to little effect. When he unsheathed his knife and approached the two men who fought, she let out a piercing scream. Winn had the other man beneath him on the ground, wide open to the second man.
“No!” she yelled. There was a sickening thump and suddenly the man slumped to the ground, an arrow protruding from his temple and his eyes staring blindly at the sky. Makedewa stepped through the bushes, his bow poised for a second shot, Chetan flanking his side.
She scrambled backward on her bottom away from the dead man and watched as the brothers simply surveyed Winn as he fought. It made no sense to her why they did not jump in to help him. Winn rolled the man onto his back, hitting the man with his bloodied closed fist, bone connecting bone with a sickening crunch. Winn shouted at the man, and the intruder seemed to smile through his missing teeth, and when Winn shook him he spit a mass of blood out that splattered Winn’s face and chest.
Winn raised his knife and thrust it deep into the side of the man’s neck. The intruder went limp, and Winn slowly stepped off the man. His chest heaved then as if he released his anger in one final breath, and as she met his eyes she saw the rabid fierceness slowly fade. He swiped the back of his arm across his face, then sheathed his knife before he approached where she still sat on the ground.
“Winn?”
He kneeled in front of her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked softly. She shook her head. She stayed motionless when he reached out for her forehead and his fingers rubbed the smudge from her skin. His blue eyes burned like two slanted embers when he looked down at her, her heart beating like a jackrabbit trapped in a snare.
“You will never wear the mark of another warrior.”
The words were coarse from his gritted jaw, and in one motion he swept her up into his arms. She rode in his lap back to the village, her riderless pony trailing behind.
CHAPTER 10
“Patawomecks. They were scouts,” Makedewa said. He inhaled smoke from the long pipe, passing it to Winn as he exhaled. They sat with the other men in the Long House, cross-legged on furs in a circle. There were few Paspahegh men left in the village, many eradicated by English raids or white man’s diseases, and of the forty odd men, only half were able-bodied enough to be considered warriors. Though only twenty strong, they were still fierce fighters and Winn was confident they could handle the threat from a few rogue Patawomeck14.
“What reason do they have to spy on us? We leave their lands to them. We let them trade with the English as they please,” another warrior spoke. Pimtune, an older man, sat up and addressed the others. Born with a twisted upper lip, he looked as if he always smiled, even when he was clearly agitated.
“They do not join with Opechancanough. I hear they want no more war with the English. The man I killed said nothing before his death,” Winn said. His feet and hands felt heavy as he inhaled the sweet pipe smoke, the slow rush spreading a warmth through his essence as it cleared his troubled mind. He knew the Patawomeck opposed the upcoming attack on the English that his uncle had been planning for years. The Patawomeck had already refused to join the Powhatan and pledged they would remain neutral. Opechancanough had given up trying to ally with them as the time drew near, so this breach of territory worried Winn. There was no good reason for the Patawomeck to be in Powhatan territory, especially in the small Paspahegh lands.
“It is not usual for them to take English slaves, yet they tried to take the Red Woman,” Makedewa said. The other warriors looked up at the revelation. Pimtune creased his brows yet remained respectful as he glanced toward Winn. Winn passed the pipe to him, and did not look at Makedewa, unwilling to show his brother how much the statement bothered him.
“What say you, Winkeohkwet?” Pimtune asked.
Winn nodded. “Yes, the dog marked her. It was clear he meant to take her.”
Murmurs erupted among the men. A canopy of smoke hung over them, a wisp funneling up through the fire hole at the top of the Long House where the wind whipped above. Rumbles of an autumn storm shook the walls and the wind wailed outside. Winn wondered if Maggie was warm by the fire in his yehakin.
“We will send word to Opechancanough. He will want to hear of this.”
The men grunted in agreement with Winn and resumed passing the pipe amongst them.
CHAPTER 11
She lay curled under several furs, chilled by the unseasonably cold winds and eager to warm her frozen fingers and toes. Darkness had fallen hours before, yet Winn had still not returned. She waited up as long as she could, trying to keep the fire burning and failing miserably, until finally she gave up and retired to her sleeping space. Her mind would not rest, however, even though the remainder of her body begged to succumb, fatigue not enough of a distraction to keep away visions of the dead warriors.
An arrow to the temple, quick and effective.
A blade jammed into the neck? Equally as efficient, yet somehow seeming much more brutal. She recalled his eyes when he did it, the frigid, focused stare, flaming with violence, intent on bloodshed. Yet Winn came to her afterward, the fire dimmed, his gaze anxious, his touch gentle and calming.
He had killed a man to protect her, taken a life as if it meant nothing. She could not grasp how such violence could be turned on, and then off, like a simple switch to be flipped at a whim. He could turn that on her at any moment, yet some tiny voice inside whispered he would never turn that hatred on her.
She heard the flap of the door covering and knew he returned. With her scattered thoughts still fresh, she did not immediately rise, instead keeping her eyes closed to mimic sleep. She was afraid to face him, wanting to thank him, but unsure if thanking him for killing a man was something appropriate to do.
“Tentay teh,” he said softly. Warmth rushed through her when she felt him sit down beside her. Although the furs separated them, she still felt his heat, and his closeness caused her throat to tighten and her palms to moisten as they lay curled under her chin. He ran his hand over her hair, drifting down her chin, then to her shoulder.
She swallowed back against her closed throat and opened her eyes. He seemed unsurprised she was awake. His nearness was disarming, so much so she sat up and put a bit of distance between them. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“I did not mean to wake you,” he said.
“It’s okay. I wanted to see you.” She bit her lower lip, the words seeming to come out in a disjointed mess instead
of how she wanted them to. She held her breath as he reached over. He pulled a fur up over her shoulders and enclosed her in it, his fingers brushing her bared arms but nothing more.
“Oh? Why?” He sat back away from her, staring at her with his wide full mouth slightly parted, his blue eyes soft and serene.
“To thank you. For what you did,” she replied. He frowned and ducked his head a bit, then met her stare again. She hesitated to explain further, but made the attempt anyway. “Men don’t do things like that where I come from. Kill people, I mean. Not over a woman. Certainly not over me,” she stammered.
His gaze hardened, his jaw tight, and she saw the skin across his abdomen crease as he held his breath. She was confused when he left her side and began adding kindling to the fire.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“Men of your time,” he snapped. “Are they all such weaklings? Are there no warriors? I protect what is mine, Tentay teh. Until breath leaves my body, I will do so.”
Maggie sat back, stunned at his confession, unwilling to move a muscle before she could gather her senses to respond. He continued to toss wood to the flames.
“You think me savage, because men of your time spill no blood? I say your men know nothing of honor. Why do you want to return to such a time?”
“It’s where I belong, Winn,” she said softly.
“Je fais partie ou la lumiere me prend,” he murmured.
“Is that Paspahegh?”
“No. French words, from a book. It means ‘I belong where the light takes me’. Just as you do.”
“Who are you?” she asked, filled with wonder at each snippet of soul he revealed to her. She rose from the furs and approached him. “Where did you learn that? You speak so beautifully.”
His shoulders tensed, and she felt him stiffen when she slipped her hand into his.
“You think this savage knows nothing? I know many languages. I can read from your books. I am quite valuable to my Weroance.”
She placed her other hand softly on his chest and moved closer to him so he could not avoid her gaze. He looked angry, yet controlled, but she needed to ease the fire and staunch the distance between them.
“I meant no insult,” she said, trying to lighten his mood. “I was being nice.” He frowned.
“Nice? Humph,” he grunted.
“Here, sit. I have a gift for you,” she said softly. He let her pull him down next to the fire, where Teyas had left a few supplies for her. A clamshell that fit snug in her hand, a bowl of thick bear fat, and a soft deerskin to use as a towel. When Maggie asked her how to properly thank Winn for what he had done, Teyas assured her that shaving his scalp would show him just how grateful she was. She only hoped she could do it without hurting him.
“Maggie—”
“Please. Let me do this for you.”
When he watched her dip her hand in the grease, she saw his throat tighten. She kneeled in front of him, and while placing one hand on his shoulder to steady herself, she carefully smeared the grease on the crescent of short hairs over his right ear. His eyes followed her every movement.
“Be still,” she said. She took the sharp shell in the palm of her hand as Teyas instructed her, and slowly scraped it along his skin. She was pleased when the hair came cleanly away, leaving his bared scalp slick from the grease. His breath felt warm on her neck as she worked with her face close to his, going over the moon shaped patch to ensure it was smooth. As she leaned in to pat his skin dry, he turned his chin, a slight movement, yet enough for his lips to brush the side of her neck.
“Thank you for what you did today,” she said.
She touched his cheek softly with her closed lips, meaning to give him something to show her sincerity, but at the contact, the urge to feel even more assaulted her. He caught her head in his hands before she pulled away, moving his mouth to gently cover her lips. Sweet with brandy wine he kissed her, his palms cupped around her face.
She felt him shudder, and her own hands shook as she placed them flat upon his chest. She meant to move closer, every ounce of her being drawn to him, but suddenly he broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he looked down at her. His gaze flickered down, and she knew her dress laces fell half opened yet did not care, only focused on the heat in his blue eyes when he met her stare again.
“Go,” he said, his voice hoarse, “take your rest. I will see you when the sun rises.”
She thought he would kiss her again, yet he did not. He left her there alone by the fire, wondering what exactly had just happened between them.
*****
“Did you cut him?” Teyas asked.
Maggie shook her head.
“I did a pretty good job, if I may say so myself,” she replied. They worked together with the other village women, grounding Tuckahoe root into flour. Maggie would have liked to go out on the boats to retrieve it, but she was reluctant to make any suggestions since most of the women viewed her with suspicion. She imagined they wondered if she was a slave or a guest, and since she was hardly sure herself, she could see why they might be leery of her.
“Oh, good! He liked it, then?”
“Seemed so,” Maggie admitted. The memory of his kiss distracted her, and blood rushed to her cheeks as she dropped her wooden mortar. Teyas giggled.
“Is that so? My brother makes you clumsy. Maybe you should do more wife duties!” the girl laughed. Maggie stiffened and turned on her.
“What are you talking about? Wife duties?” she asked. No, surely Teyas would not be so sneaky! Maggie was fully aware it would take years for her to grasp the extent of the Paspahegh customs. Simple things she saw no meaning in were chock-full of implication in their world, so much so that she was afraid to make any move without prior instruction. When Teyas suggested she shave his scalp as a show of thanks, Maggie suspected nothing of it. 15
“When a woman shaves a man, she tells him she accepts his courting. Do not worry, Maggie, it is the proper way to show love.”
“Wait a second!” Maggie sputtered. “I only wanted to thank him! I don’t love him!” she hissed. Teyas grinned.
“Ah, thanks…love? The same,” she laughed. Teyas continued with her grinding, and the women around them broke out in song, perhaps as a way to muffle the strange strangled sounds Maggie was making. Teyas nudged her with her foot, flashing a faux chagrined smile.
“Not funny, Teyas,” she seethed. “Not funny at all.”
Some of the other women chuckled, and Maggie clamped her mouth shut.
CHAPTER 12
The celebration feast lasted three days. Maggie felt her body ache as she helped Teyas raise the large chunks of venison onto stakes for preparation. It surprised her to feel so fatigued from the daily chores the rest of the women churned through so easily, but she imagined her fitness level would catch up soon. Determined to perform her share, she trudged on, but she still looked forward to dusk when everyone slowed down. Then she could spend some time with Blaze. Although she instructed the children how to care for the growing colt, she enjoyed caring for the animal and found it a distraction from reality. The best part of the day was also unfortunately the most uncomfortable, since it involved spending time alone with Winn in his yehakin.
Maggie met little progress trying to figure him out, and she was even more confused since he kissed her. Teyas explained he was War Chief of the tribe, a title of great honor to their people. She could see how the tribe respected him, how they deferred to his orders without question. She noticed how the women flocked to him and how Winn rarely stood in a crowd without one of them hanging on him. He acted kindly and near affectionate with many of them, although she noticed he never disappeared with the woman as the other warriors did. Maggie was not certain if it was due to her presence or not, nor did she know if she should wish him to. Teyas shared bits of information with her in their conversations as they worked, and she giggled about how Winn stopped sharing furs with the women since Maggie arrived. It was meant as a compliment, but it gave Mag
gie pause. She should be happy she was not the focus of his frustrated basal desires, yet she was more afraid of her own urges than she would care to admit.
Winn spent the mornings with the other warriors and attending to his duties, which was fine with her, especially since he had become much more thoughtful after their conversation of the future. She hardly knew what to say, and the urge to comfort him in some way squeezed her chest so much she could barely speak to him without longing to embrace him.
Maggie worked to learn some of the language and ease her frustration, intrigued by the smooth cadence of their speech and eager to communicate. Perhaps if she learned more and behaved as if she was trying to fit in, she could find others who might help her with the Bloodstone. She suspected Winn had something to do with the way Teyas clammed up anytime Maggie asked about the Bloodstone, and she was sure Winn hid the stone from her. Maggie spent many mornings searching the yehakin for it without success.
Maggie sliced her knife through the venison top to bottom, and as she watched the meat yield, a hand fell on her shoulder. She swung swiftly around, the blade clutched in her fist, thinking about how Winn had ended the life of a man with such a weapon.
Winn plucked the knife from her hand, his brows arched in challenge. She bit back a harsh retort and took a breath before responding. She crossed her arms and held her hand out to him, palm up.
“I can’t finish without the knife,” she said evenly. He nodded.
“Teyas can finish. I would walk with you.”
“Are you asking me?”
He sighed, then nodded.
“Yes. Would you walk?”
Teyas smiled as if the exchange was normal courtship, and resumed her chores without complaint. To her surprise, Winn returned the knife to her hand and watched as she tucked it into the cord tied around her waist. She followed when he walked away, wondering where he would take her. He spoke little in the last two days other than to ask random questions about her time, which she tried to answer even though it made her more homesick, so this change in his behavior intrigued her.